


Sleep for the wicked

by anthiese



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Black Eagles Students, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headcanon, Kinda, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Slice of Life, just a bit of each, pre-release
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 04:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthiese/pseuds/anthiese
Summary: Four seasons, five moments of Linhardt's life at the Garreg Mach Monastery, and a sixth one from another time.





	1. Guardian Moon, Season of the Pegasus

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2020 now but i went over this again for some tiny edits just to make it look a little better and stuff, esp the last chapter dfghbjfdg anyway! i wanted to put a disclaimer at the start that i wrote a good half of this before the game came out, therefore there's some ooc content (it's hubert, it just is hubert. i'm sorry hubert)  
> anyway, if you're a wandering soul reading Sleep now, then thank you, enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave comments!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some reason there’s people over all that pretty furniture. People he doesn’t know. Four, maybe five. Four or five too many. (a meeting in Winter)

I.

“Bernadetta.” 

She steps back, opening the door a bit more, still half hidden behind it. 

“...Bernadetta.” 

“Hurry up and come in, before von Essar sees you.” 

“ _Bernadetta_ _!_ ” 

“...please?” 

Linhardt sighs. He throws a glance behind his shoulders, to the few monastery workers coming and going to the dormitories, and to the flakes of snow starting to stick to his uniform. He might be getting used to living so far north of Hevring, but staying outside in Winter keeps being a terrible idea. He steps in, Bernadetta closing the door behind him. 

The fireplace is lit, and the room is toasty, and bigger than most others -except the House Leaders’, he guesses- because despite her looks, he knows Count Varley spoils her rotten: she has enough space for a couch and some armchairs, her desk is much larger than his, heavy with books of all kinds, and the window includes a comfortable seat lined with fluffy cushions. 

And for some reason, today there’s _people_ over all that pretty furniture. People he doesn’t know. Four, maybe five. Four or five too many. 

He grabs Bernadetta’s arm, and drags her to a corner. Some girl with pink hair looks up from a magazine to square him up and down, from where she’s laying on the bed, and he notices the yellow linings of her uniform. Deer. 

“Bernadetta,” he has to whisper, “what’s with all these people?” 

“It’s... more crowded than usual, yes, but there’s still room if you need to rest.” 

He throws a glance across the room: on the far end of the room, on the window seat, a girl reading, and a boy curled up in a blanket in front of her, then another guy sitting on the ground right below them; on the bed, the pink haired one, and at the center of the room, another girl, with a head of baby blue braids, slouched on one of armchairs. The first three, in blue lined uniforms, and the two girls, in yellow. 

“I sleep anywhere, that’s not a problem. But who _are_ these people?” He turns to Bernadetta, who’s looking off to the side. “They don’t have any feathers, you know.” 

“Neither do you, Linhardt.” Bernadetta says. He can’t object. “Houses aside, we’re all here to skip class, aren’t we? So don’t worry, and let’s do that.” 

He can’t object with that, either. Yes, it is strange that Bernadetta has people from other Houses over in her room, but she’s always done him a favor by letting him stay there when he needed to. And with his room being right next to the classrooms, where von Essar would immediately come looking for him to drag him back to class... he’s needed that often. 

“Still, will you tell me why everyone is in here?” 

Bernadetta raises her head, and gestures to the girl in the armchair. “That’s a friend of mine, Marianne... We were on stable duty during the Ethereal Moon, then we decided we liked spending time together. Her housemate heard we were skipping class lately, and she wanted to come with...” She motions to the girl in the bed, and lowers her voice even more. “Her name is Hilda.” 

Linhardt holds back a laugh. Lady Goneril. He knows her by name, but it’s quite a name. And even before she told him, that one really didn’t look like someone Bernadetta would be friends with, willingly. 

“And... that’s... that’s Sylvain. We met at lunch.” She mutters, nodding towards the boy on the ground. Red hair, pretty face, open uniform. He thinks he knows why Bernadetta let him stay. “He’s friendly, so you better keep your distance.” 

“His friends?” 

“Mercedes is the one studying. The other is Felix, and you don’t want to wake him up.” She starts walking back to her desk, Linhardt trailing behind her. “The new professor... that Byleth person, is a taskmaster, they told me. They’ve all been working a lot, so Sylvain asked if I could spare some space for them to rest today.” 

With Bernadetta, Linhardt can never tell if she’s the kindest person in the world, or simply the most easily swayed. This time he leans more to the latter. 

“I wonder what lady Edelgard might think...” He hums, and Bernadetta shivers. She must know he wouldn’t tell anyone, but on the other hand, the very thought of angering Edelgard is alarming to many. A stressed little huff comes from her, as she turns back to her books. 

“There, go to sleep.” 

He doesn’t let her insist, and walks up to the couch. As soon as he sits down, a head snaps from the side, on one of the armchairs. It startles him- the Deer girl, Marianne. He thought she was sleeping. 

Instead, she stares, brown eyes boring into his. Linhardt has no choice but to stare back, while he lays down and gets comfortable. She looks tired. Did he disturb her sleep? Was he that noisy? Is there snow on his face? 

“Hello.” He tries. She doesn’t look convinced. 

“I’m Linhardt,” he goes on, “and I’m skipping Reason Magic class right now.” The Deer keeps looking at him, blinking, but showing no intention to reply. 

“Last night I studied ‘til the sun came up,” he goes on, “so I think I deserve to skip if I want to... I was thinking of napping here, unless you wanted this spot instead.” 

Marianne blinks again a couple times, as if unsure he’d been talking to her, before finally opening her mouth. 

“I... no, it’s... I’m sure it’s a good spot.” She says. Her voice is deep but clear, if a bit hard to hear. He looks at her expectantly, and she mutters something else. 

“And, uhm, I don’t know if Bernadetta told you, I, I’m Marianne, from the Golden Deer.” 

“She called you her friend,” Linhardt tells her, “and I don’t know if you know, but that’s a rare thing, for Bernadetta.” 

Marianne looks down, as if embarrassed by the thought, and starts fiddling with something. She’s holding a handkerchief and a hoop, he notices. Embroidery. So she _really_ hadn’t been sleeping. 

“I... I’m glad she would refer to me as such.” She says, getting back to her work. 

Linhardt starts to think she’s not going to tell him why she was staring. Or maybe there was no reason behind it. Seeing as Marianne doesn’t look like she has anything to tell him, he starts fluffing the pillow. Then she speaks again. 

“It’s comfortable, in here, with other... people who keep to themselves.” And she shoots a look to the side, towards that Lion guy. He notices immediately, and drops the letters in his hands to wave and flash a blinding smile in Marianne’s direction. 

Linhardt can’t help a giggle. So that’s why she was squaring him up, she was trying to figure out if he was more like Bernadetta, or that guy. 

“Rest easy, then.” He says, laying his head down. Considering the circles under her eyes, he’d add something about how she should rest, too, but decides not to pester her. He adds a “good night” instead. 

“Sleep tight,” Marianne replies, and he feels like he can let his eyes close. Linhardt is good at spotting bad people, and she doesn’t look like one. 

He has no trouble falling asleep, and when he’s awake again, the room is empty as he’s used to seeing it, except for Bernadetta and Caspar, who’s clad in some sort of blackened training armor. They’re pressed together in one of the armchairs, whispering back and forth, and Caspar’s armor looks too big to let them both sit comfortably in a spot meant for one, yet they’re smiling. He throws an arm over his eyes, trying to catch one last minute of sleep. 

But Caspar’s reflexes are better than he’d like, and that movement is enough for him to notice that he’s awake. And then he’s out of the armchair and on the couch, squashing Linhardt against the pillows and shaking his shoulders with that big dumb smile on his face. 

“Linhardt! Hurry, hurry! Up!” 

He keeps moving and shaking and pinching his cheeks, and Linhardt has to remove his arm, and open his eyes. 

“Ouch. Ouch. Caspar. Caspar please- I’m awake. Caspar-” he pleads, and all of it goes unheard. Bernadetta giggles. 

He struggles a bit to sit up with his friend and his entire armor weighing on him, but once he does, Caspar finally calms down. He hops off the couch, and Linhardt sighs with relief. 

“We did thunder magic today. Did you see this? Look, look.” Caspar starts, turning around, arms spread out. He’s covered in dust and snow, and the armor looks like it went through quite a beating. “Hanneman said I wasn’t behaving, so I ended up playing the bull’s eye.” 

“What... are you talking about?” 

“Huh, _this_? You’re not looking!” Caspar keeps spinning. Linhardt isn’t sure of where to look. It’s a mess everywhere. 

“Is this related to why you look like roasted lamb?” 

Caspar looks vaguely offended. “I... Yeah! Well, you had to be there. Hanneman made me-” 

“Professor von Essar.” 

“-he made me put on the armor, and then I had to stand, and the others tried taking me down...” He pauses, raising a fist triumphantly. “But I stood right there! You should’ve seen me... I’m a wall, Linhardt, I’ll tell you!” 

He speaks of it with such pride, that Linhardt doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the class must’ve been a demonstration on how easily magic can melt metal. 

“You know I believe you, Caspar.” He says, rubbing his eye. His friend beams, and even Bernadetta, behind him, gives a little smile. “Did we miss anything else?” 

“The usual. Hubert kept yawning, Petra was the best, and Edelgard looked scary. Ferdinand insisted to give me his notes for you guys,” says Caspar, and at the mention of that name Bernadetta huffs and rolls her eyes, “but I don’t think it’s anything you don’t know. Bernadetta might need them, though.” 

A pillow is hurled in Caspar’s direction, but it crashes against his back without him even noticing. Bernadetta huffs again. 

“If you’re just here to make fun of me, you’re no longer welcome. Take Linhardt and go to dinner.” 

He pushes himself up before Caspar gets the chance to reply. “No need. I’ll take myself to dinner, you two can stay and fight as long as you need.” 

Of course, they don’t. They follow him out of Bernadetta’s room, and Caspar doesn’t even think to stop by his own to take von Essar’s armor off, so they arrive to the dining hall preceded by a loud clanging. 

Edelgard turns around when they enter. They find some places to sit on the bench that faces hers, and Linhardt feels her eyes on him and Bernadetta as they eat. 

The meal isn’t good. The herring is too salty, and a couple vegetables are burned, but Caspar eats too fast to notice, and Bernadetta doesn’t dare speak a word in front of the Princess. Linhardt simply doesn’t feel like talking. 

“I wonder who cooked tonight,” Edelgard says, once she’s cleaned her plate. “It feels like they forgot about the pot on the stove, and had to serve us this.” 

Hubert, by her side, reaches for the fruit basket. “It can happen to even the most attentive of cooks, lady Edelgard. Especially when cooking for such a great number of people.” 

She taps her mouth with a handkerchief. “That shouldn’t matter. Someone who’s good at their job should always know exactly where their tools are.” Her eyes shift again, from the empty plate back to Linhardt. “Shouldn’t they?” 

Before he can even consider answering, she gets up. “I bid you all goodnight.” She says, and disappears out of the door. 

Hubert soon follows, like a shadow, his plate almost untouched. To his left, he sees Bernadetta’s hand is shaking. It’s not that cold. 

“What’s with her lately?” asks Caspar while energetically stabbing a piece of pumpkin. 

From the other bench, Dorothea slides a bit closer to the three of them. “I think she received news from the capital. You know she doesn’t talk about what goes around her head, but I’m sure something is happening.” 

“Thank you for telling us.” Linhardt replies. Caspar goes on to ask for details, but he can’t follow a single word. A lot of things go through Edelgard’s head, but it’s only her words that keep going through his. The meal has gone cold.   


He doesn’t sleep well that night, but he wakes up in time for class. Uncharacteristically, Bernadetta is already sitting down when he arrives. Edelgard looks very pleased that day. 


	2. Great Tree Moon, Season of the Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crests. Crests, not shining teeth. (a moment of Spring)

II.

He watches the last Lone Moon of the year rise to its zenith from the library tower. Almost four months into the year, and this is the... eleventh? Maybe twelfth time, that Linhardt falls asleep in there. Tomas has since tired of waiting for him to wake up, and lately he just locks the door with him inside.

This time he fell asleep on an extensive essay of von Essar’s on the manifestation of certain crests. He was able to take notes up until the fiftieth page, at which point the words in his writing pad turned into borderline blasphemous scribbles of the Four Saints and lady Seiros.

Now that he’s awake he should erase them, but he remembers that every time he lent his notes, Caspar would tell him the drawings made it easier to follow, and he’d always see Petra smile at them, since they went past the language barrier. Maybe Bernadetta isn’t the only one of the House to be artistically gifted. He sets his quill back down, and lets out a loud yawn.

A wyvern screeches in the distance, and a gust of wind throws the window open. Before he can have time to worry about the tower being haunted, rain starts pouring, and his heartbeat slows down.

He looks back to the notes on the desk: something about shields, the Divine Cichol, and something that looks like a horse with a man’s head. The faces look familiar, as do the words, and the diagrams and everything else, and yet... it’s so late, and it’s so _cold_ , and the everything on the paper keeps mixing up with the rest.

 _Cichol_ _will have to wait_ , Linhardt thinks, while putting away his supplies. He stands up, and puts the essay back into its shelf, just as thunder starts roaring from the open window, startling him. He jumps back and bumps against a shelf, knocking a couple books to the ground. Again, the tower _isn't_ haunted. It’s the weather.

After taking a second to recollect himself, he puts the books back into place, and walks to the open window. The courtyard below is surprisingly busy, with both monastery workers and a few students running around, trying to take shelter under the covered walk. Linhardt pities them a bit. Whatever they were doing past the curfew tonight, it must’ve been ruined.

Meanwhile, at the very least he’s dry inside the tower, even though the rain is getting quite violent, causing awful noises to fill the halls as each drop falls down.

The Great Tree Moon often starts with a terrible downpour, it’s not news, he has to tell himself… No, in the Goddess’ name, he’d rather be out in the cold than locked in here. And even more, he’d rather be in his room, wrapped in a warm blanket, safe from ghosts and the like. There’s also been rumors of strange disappearances lately, of some phantom knight abducting students to sacrifice in some dark ritual…

Linhardt closes the window, and steps away. The echoes of the tower are still deafening, disturbing, but the seats of the library are comfortable, and if he tries hard, maybe he could-

A sound. From the other end of the library. A movement. Something at the door. He tries to remember the words of any spell, anything to defend himself, but the door is already opening.

“Linhardt?” He recognizes the voice before he can even see its owner. “You’re awake, aren’t you... The rats never make quite so much noise.”

He lets himself breathe, relieved. Tomas stands by the door, a lantern in his hand. The old archivist looks tired, but wears his usual benevolent smile.

“Sorry for waking you up, sir.” Linhardt says. “Might you... let me out?”

“I’ve unlocked the library for you, young man: you’d have to get out whether you wanted it or not.”

Linhardt smiles, but Tomas is already turning around, calling “Now come on out child, come,” and in a second he’s gathered all of his things, and he’s following the old man down the stairs.

“Thank you, sir.” He says once they’re down to the corridor at the base of the tower. “I promise it-”

“It will happen again, Linhardt, don’t you start telling lies,” replies Tomas, turning his back to him. “Now sleep, and start studying earlier, tomorrow.”

He nods, and the old man and his lantern disappear down the corridor, leaving him alone in front of the exit. The rain seems to have calmed, just barely. Linhardt pulls the uniform jacket on top of his head, and sprints out into the courtyard.

A few more students are doing the same, so the walk is less stressing than waiting in the tower was. Still, he arrives to the dormitories drenched from head to toe. His teeth are chattering. He doesn’t feel like walking all the way back to his room.

He reaches for the first door of the long corridor, and as he expected, Caspar’s room is unlocked. He looks like he’s been asleep for a while, and Linhardt is careful not to make a noise, as he places his notes on the desk, and smuggles a couple blankets and some dry clothes from the wardrobe. The sound of thunder still reaches his ears as he sinks into the soft armchair, wrapped in the blankets, but he has no trouble falling asleep.  


Caspar is restless in the morning. It hasn’t stopped raining when they wake up, nor when the first bell tolls, signaling the start of morning classes. For once, Linhardt is dressed and ready to leave before him, while he paces the room back and forth, shooting ugly looks to the window. The gray sky stares back at him.

“Linhardt,” he calls, finally stopping, hands on his hips. “I am going to commit a felony.”

It’s too complicated of a word to process at nine in the morning. Linhardt tilts his head. “Can we have breakfast first?”

They do. Caspar covers himself with a cape that’s too big for him, and is tense during the entire walk to the main building, stealing glances at the clouds above, but once they’re safe under the cloister, his mood seems to improve.

There’s not too many people in the dining hall at this hour, as lady Edelgard recommends everyone to break their fast before the first bell, and many minor nobles heed her every word. Glorious Adrestians, blood of the Heavens.

“Ish dish Fewdinand?” Caspar asks from a mouthful of cereal, gesturing to his notes, with Cichol and the horse man.

“I was tired when I drew this...” Linhardt explains, moving the notepad to get a good look at them: both the Saint and the creature have the same voluminous hair, and a smile with way too many teeth.

“It’s him.” He sentences. Caspar almost chokes on his milk, and he has to pat his back until he feels better.

“About my felony,” Caspar begins when they’re both done eating, “today I... I am going to skip class.”

Linhardt isn’t surprised: Caspar couldn’t have meant anything more malicious. “Is the rain that annoying?” He asks.

“It’s... I don’t like it, puts me in a bad mood.”

“And you trip on the mud every time you train with weather like this.”

“I do! So, are you with me?”

He has to think about it for a second. He doesn’t mind this weather, and he hasn’t been to the training grounds for a while, but most importantly, there’s some gaps in his notes about Cichol’s Crest that he needs to fill.

“I need to meet Ferdinand. As soon as possible.”

“For crest research?” Caspar asks. “Or just for his shining teeth?”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “Cheeky. A question about his Crest, then after class I can meet you here for lunch.”

“You’re sure Ferdinand will be in class?”

“Not everyone slacks off like you, Caspar.”

“Like _us!_ We slack off together, and you’re the laziest one!”

Between Caspar’s terrible understanding of magic and how to study it, and his own reluctance to do any kind of physical training... his friend is right, he supposes.

“But not today. I’ll get going,” he says, gathering his notes again. “Keep yourself dry, if you can.”

They separate there, with Caspar heading back to the dormitories, and Linhardt towards the training grounds.

Outside it keeps raining, and Linhardt clutches the notes to his chest, praying to the Goddess that his cape will be enough to keep them from the rain. Luckily when he reaches the gates to the grounds, someone comes up from behind him, and pushes the heavy doors open.

“Thank you!” He says, immediately slipping inside. The person follows him, letting the door close behind, and starts shaking the water off their cloak.

“You, are welcome.” Petra’s voice. She lowers her hood, and while the cloak gives the impression that her wardrobe was prepared for this kind of weather, her face absolutely doesn’t.

“I am missing the sun.” She tells Linhardt as they walk through the labyrinth of corridors that make up the training grounds.

“I thought you liked water?”

“Ocean is not the same,” she laughs, “but you know it. _That_ water make one want to swim... even one like you.”

“You’re right.” He remembers the shores of Hevring, the white sand and clear waters... It was nice, being a child in a place like that. “I miss the sun too.”

Petra nods. “In Brigid, rain come always with Spring, and Spring brings flood... disaster. Your land should be not much different.”

From a door comes a clatter of weapons, and Petra heads straight for it, Linhardt behind her. It’s one of the open halls, a yard with seats all around its covered perimeter, and rain pouring heavily down the dark ground. Lady Shamir stands in the middle of it, arms crossed, as two Eagles try hitting her with their practice lances. She gives them a single look, before turning back to the attackers.

Petra takes a seat in the covered part of the hall, and Linhardt follows. He’s never been to one of Shamir’s classes before, but it’s clear that she doesn’t care much for who does what for the duration of it.

“Is this... the class?” He asks Petra. He’s not quite sure of what’s going on in front of them: another student joined the fray, and all three keep trying to hit Shamir, while she dances around them without a care, completely drenched in rain. The other students on the sidelines watch intently, taking notes now and then.

“This is an exercise just, she does it all the time before starting.” She replies. Then she adds, “It’s strange seeing you for this class... are you searching something, or is it because of Edelgard?”

He shifts his eyes from the fight back to Petra, and beyond her, to the other spectators. “I wanted to see Ferdinand, to check something about his Crest, but I might have to wait... What kind of exercise is this?”

She stands up suddenly, and lets her cloak fall in Linhardt’s arms. “It’s for speed, reflexes... waiting the right moment.”

And then she runs out in the rain, to the center of the yard, practice sword in hand. Shamir notices her and turns around, easily dodging the slow strikes of the other three, but she’s not fast enough for Petra: she hits her one, two, three times, as the other students stare in awe.

“Wow...” Linhardt murmurs. During battle, he tries not to pay much attention to his housemates, and he never really knew where Caspar’s admiration for her came from. Now he does.

Shamir starts clapping, raising her hands over her head. “Another one for Petra. The rest of you are getting left in the dust, I hope you’re ashamed of that.”

Petra and the three students walk back to their seats, welcomed by a few energetic claps. Linhardt hands her the cloak again, and she starts drying herself.

“Our lady Petra, pride of the Black Eagles!” calls a booming voice from the other end of the hall, too loud like he always is. Ferdinand.

“There is he.” Petra says. She looks embarrassed by the attention, but not like she’s unused to it. “He comes here now, don’t worry. He always wants to compliment...”

“You really were incredible, though. I don’t know how you can be so fast.”

Petra smiles, a bit jittery. “Thank you. You are impressive too, with magic.”

Something he owes to his blood, but it’s still a good compliment. Plenty of the Saints’ descendants don’t have the strength, the ability to use their power. His mind drifts for a second, to that friend of Bernadetta’s, one of the Lions. The Church recently sent him to fight against a crestless relative, she told him, and things turned out badly. A horrifying tale, if true, and one he’d like to know more about. Few live to recount encounters like that.

Shamir claps again, this time to get everyone’s attention, snapping Linhardt out of his thoughts.

“Now grab a lance and pick a battle, everyone, show me what you can do.”

At the call, some students jump out to the yard and start exchanging blows, and some take time to form teams or to pick the right weapon. Petra hands him a lance, an eye on the bright orange head moving towards them.

“Good morning, my friends!” Ferdinand salutes, closing the distance between them in an instant.

“Morning.” Petra mumbles, a bit uncomfortable.

“Petra, incredible form, once again! And good morning to you, too, Linhardt. You’re a welcome surprise!”

So loud. So open. And he really is standing too close.

“Hello...” Linhardt starts. “See, today-”

“Well, how shall we fight today? Both of you against me, or taking turns, or us strong men against our lady Petra? What do you say, Linhardt? I will bet my horned Dagdan helmet that we still will not be able to defeat her!”

Petra laughs, taking the chance to regain some vital space, and Linhardt turns to Ferdinand. He’s looking at him expectantly, shining smile on his face, and those lush locks of his fluttering in the wind. He’s such a handsome thing when he doesn’t talk…

Crests. Crests, not shining teeth. He even told Caspar.

“If... if Petra doesn’t mind, I wanted to challenge you myself for once.”

“But of course! Lances, or would you prefer swords, or axes, or a good old archery tournament?”

“Lady Shamir said it’s lances today,” Petra chimes in. “You two can go first... And, this is training just... Go easy on each other, Ferdinand.”

He seems to find the idea very entertaining, chuckling as he takes a practice lance from the racks, and steps out into the yard. He doesn’t even have a cape on, it’s just him being a bit too handsome under the rain.

“Stay confident and you can make it. And careful with the left.” Petra tells him once Ferdinand’s out of ear range. “That’s his... strong hand, so he hits when you don’t expect it.”

Linhardt gives a look to his lance, then to Ferdinand. Left... if he manages to hit him while he switches hands… “Isn’t it cheating to tell me something like this?”

She shrugs, a smile on her face. “I can’t help with crests, but I can always help you with fighting.”

If he had more time to talk he’d tell her this is technically helping with both... It’s good to have a friend in her. “Thank you, Petra.”

Then he takes a deep breath, and joins Ferdinand outside. The rain has slightly eased up, but he’s still quite nervous: it’s been... _a while_ since he last trained like this, or even held a weapon that wasn’t magic, not to mention Ferdinand is an exceptional fighter in his own right... But he can’t stand that ugly blank spot in his notes, no, that must be fixed. Now, activating a crest is a thing of chance, and he has to consider some holders can’t activate it at will, and if Ferdinand notices he’s trying to get him to do it-

“Linhardt, friend, shall we begin this confrontation?” He calls, his eyes so focused, weapon tight in his right hand... By the Goddess, he wouldn’t notice anything right now.

“Ready when you are.” Linhardt shoots back.

And clearly Ferdinand is ready, immediately sprinting towards him, thrusting his lance forward. Linhardt struggles to block the first strike, and the couple that follow seem equally hard to dodge, with Ferdinand almost attacking faster than he can keep up with- but then he starts to notice how much slower than normal his movements are, how imprecise his attacks.

A ruse. He wants him to lower his guard and dare attacking, so he can switch to his good hand and end the duel for good. Well, he can’t have that.

Linhardt keeps his lance high, and keeps blocking, dodging, waiting. Petra did say to stay confident... and Ferdinand is starting to tire out from this little game.

“You- You hold up well, do you not, Linhardt? You- ah, you are faster than I remember.”

Ferdinand is smarter than he looks, thinking about distracting him. But not enough to realize he can’t. Linhardt waits again, a second more, until he’s close enough and with his guard lowered.

“Ah, I, I think I’m, doing-”

...Oh, there it comes. Before he can finish replying, Ferdinand lowers his lance and reaches with his left hand- and for a moment he’s wide open.

“-alright.”

Linhardt takes the chance, and plunges the lance with all of his weight, in the middle of his stomach.

And then it happens. Just as the weapon makes contact with his opponent, Linhardt barely has time to look down to his dumbfounded face, that a flash of white energy bursts forth from Ferdinand, knocking him to the ground and sending his lance flying.

That hurt. He should’ve expected it. His hands slip on the mud, but he manages to push himself up. He wipes the rainwater from his face.

“Then that is...”

It is it. He’s done it. In the point of the impact the energy still lingers, a barrier of light in the form of Cichol’s Crest. Ferdinand is on his knees a couple feet back, breathing heavily, leaning on his lance. Shaking from the aftereffects.

Lady Shamir is standing just a bit further, watching them intently.

“So? You two.” She calls, just as he’s trying to think about how to note down his observations.

Ferdinand rises to his feet. “Just a second, miss Nevrand.” He replies, picking up Linhardt’s lance. The barrier crumbles into nothingness and rain as he passes through it, and heads towards him.

“Thank you, Ferdinand. It’s been enlightening!” Linhardt tells him, extending his hand.

“I didn’t really have a hand in it, but it’s not a problem, my friend.”

He smiles that shiny smile of his, bright like the sun even under this rain... and raises both lances against him. “Do you yield?”

Oh. Dueling. Training. Class. Shamir getting closer, with an amused expression.

“I yield.” He says.

Shamir seems satisfied with what she saw, and signals for Petra to take Linhardt's place.

“Good work!” She tells him when she steps out.

Then Linhardt hurries back to the covered walk as she and Ferdinand start exchanging blows, and he notices with relief that, despite Petra standing her ground against him, he seems to be feeling better.

He turns back to the seats to find Dorothea on what was Petra’s spot next to his, looking through his writing pad. She hands it back immediately, a grin on her face.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Linhardt replies, sitting down and getting to note down everything he saw about the Crest. “Here to fight? Or just to take a look?”

“Her Imperial Highness says I have to take sword training more seriously. But it’s a bit of both,” she laughs, her gaze traveling outside, over to Petra. Linhardt rolls his eyes. Somehow he always forgets Dorothea has more in common with him than it might seem.

“You were pretty cool back there.” She chirps.

“Was I?” He was only trying to see his Crest, only to forget about the fighting and make a fool out of himself in front of Shamir.

“Yup. You have good footwork... I would know.”

“Oh?”

“If you focused on this you could be a good lancer, I bet, and even a good swordsman. Shamir could help you...”

“I don’t think I’m really cut for this... I’d be wasting her time.”

“Well, I was chatting up a Lion boy the other day... He told me that professor Byleth had most of them change from the weapons they normally use, and he found out he’s great with Reason Magic! And now I’m wondering about myself, too... Some things you don’t know until you try them.”

Linhardt hums, looking back to the yard. He sees many roles, among the people in his House. Ferdinand, perfect knight... Petra, slim and fast on her feet, ideal fencer. Then of course there’s Caspar with his large shoulders and strong arms, and their House Leader who was born with an axe in hand… “I’ve always been better with magic... all my family is. Even Edelgard wants us to focus on what we’re good at.”

Dorothea laughs again. “And since when do you care about what Edelgard wants?” She quips.

He can’t help a smile. “Then I guess I’m just too lazy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

They laugh together this time, and the sound echoes down the hall, but outside it’s muted by the cry of the warm Spring rain. Everything feels perfectly still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm fond of reclassing, and i think the idea of budding talents and building a unit in a different way than it was supposed to be is very interesting from a character standpoint. on the other hand when ur not pushed or even allowed to try something different... that's an interesting perspective too! so this ended up p long and thats when i decided to cut this into chapters... this was gonna be much shorter scene just with some ferdinand but then i was like naaahh. add ladies. also bi rights.  
> anyway, ch4 is ready and 5 half written, pray i'll be able to finish the 3rd chapter tonight so i can keep posting regularly even while playing!  
> again thanks to mel and bina for looking this over for me! and thanks to you for reading!


	3. Garland Moon, early Season of the Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t have time for someone else’s whims, only for his own. (training for Summer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got the game today! but luckily i managed to edit... well. redo, and post this in time! btw, i'm not playing eagles and i'm SO slow at playing, not to mention i'd already written most of the chapters left, so don't consider any of this a spoiler as much as musings! esp the idea of lin having a sister and hubert's whole... uhm everything. the second half of this is actually the first scene i wrote for the fic, at 3am the day those 4 trailers dropped. i thought i'd have to say sorry to edelgard at this point, but talking to her after not picking her house... hehe. i might've been onto something. enjoy!

III.

As the weather changes it becomes easier to stay awake. In the comfortable temperatures Linhardt is used to, it’s easier for him to focus on his studies for hours and hours on end, and to then let his eyes close anywhere, anytime, at will.

Caspar doesn’t get how he thinks that’s a good thing, but Bernadetta understands. Now that they haven’t been in battle for a while she seems to be feeling more relaxed around the monastery. Though Linhardt suspects it may have to do with not having received letters from Lord Varley in a while, but only from her grandfather the Count.

Linhardt starts receiving letters, too, from Hevring: his mother tells him about the sea and the sun, about the last Spring flowers blowing gently in the wind and down to the shore, and his father recommends him to study hard and to keep an eye on his housemates. Lisbet writes that she loves him very much, plus some flaming words about how she should be at the Officers Academy in his place, right now, because she may be younger but she works hard, while he’s a good for nothing.

He thinks hard about what to write back for days, and eventually replies to all three letters in the quiet of Bernadetta’s room, alone with that friend of hers sitting across from him, with her embroidery and her pretty eyes that keep stealing glances from him.

To his mother, since very little flowers bloomed at the monastery this Spring, and no pleasant Summer wind has reached it yet, Linhardt writes that he misses her and the sights of home.

To his father, since it happens more often that his housemates have to keep an eye on him, rather than him on them, he replies only that he’s studying night and day, and that he always tries to make sure Caspar works alongside him.

To his sister, since everything she said is the hard truth, he writes back that he loves her very much, too, and that he’d love to let her take his place, if she was able to convince the Archbishop to let an untalented 14 years old girl into the Academy.

From in front of him, as Linhardt writes that, Bernadetta’s friend clasps her hand over her mouth to hold back a laugh, but he notices.

“You can read upside down?”

She nods. “And I can write, uhm... pretty well upside down, too.”

“My calligraphy is terrible even upright... That’s impressive.” Linhardt smiles. “Do you have any siblings?” He asks her.

“I... I don’t.” She replies, looking down to her knees.

She, she, she... Marianne, Linhardt remembers. That’s her name.

“I’m not being too hard on her, you know. It’s just how we talk to each other.”

Marianne looks up at him, a smile in her eyes. “You must care for her very much... The rest of your family, too.”

He looks up from the letter, playing with the feather of his quill. “I do, don’t I... But I like spending time apart. I need my space, I think.”

Marianne’s eyes go wide, and Linhardt opens his mouth to say that he doesn’t mean _right now_ , that her presence doesn’t bother him, but rather... The door of Bernadetta’s room is thrown open, a familiar round face on the threshold. Linhardt remembers her.

“Hilda!” Marianne calls.

The girl huffs, and hurries to Marianne’s side, taking her by the wrists.

“Marie! I’ve been looking for you! Let’s go, don’t make poor little Hilda wait!” Marianne lets Hilda drag her up to her feet, while she goes on and on about how important shopping trips are and how they have to be in time or the best ribbons will be sold out.

Linhardt’s presence goes completely unnoticed by lady Goneril, as he should’ve expected, and he only manages to say a “have a safe trip” to Marianne when she waves at him as Hilda drags her out of the door.

Strange friendships form at the Academy.  


He’s getting used to spend time with his housemates, lately. After lunch, when there’s no evening class and the heat starts being too strong to hide from it inside a building, the members of the Black Eagles gather up outside to enjoy the shade and the fresh air.

Sometimes Caspar even manages to drag Bernadetta along, and when he doesn’t, they end up visiting her later, after the sun goes down.

Sometimes Linhardt even manages to stay awake the entire evening, because he gets too distracted by the others’ chatter to even think about falling asleep.

Then there’s times Dorothea convinces Petra to sing in Brigidian for her, and Ferdinand tries ( _tries_ ) to join in, and even Hubert twists his face into something that one might call a smile.

Lady Edelgard joins them, too. She’s not one to sit idly, as Linhardt is all too painfully aware of, but she likes to use the times when they’re all gathered together to motivate them with some of her somber speeches about the future of the Empire.

She also likes to call this “training”, for some reason. Whether it’s because she sees spending time together as a way to better her rhetoric skills, or to make herself feel better about not being working, Linhardt doesn’t know, nor is he particularly interested. He needs nothing more than a bit of sunlight and some peace and quiet, he doesn’t have time for someone else’s whims, only for his own.  


One afternoon they’re all in the courtyard, and for once it’s silent, with everyone tired from the morning classes, just enjoying the shade. Lady Edelgard walks up to where he’s sitting under the portico, steel axe in hand. She challenges him to fight with the real thing. It’s the first time she’s ever done something like that, and he is curious as to what prompted it. But not enough to bother asking her.

“No,” is his only answer. Linhardt doesn’t miss the way her pretty violet eyes flash with something dark at the rejection.

Caspar is next, and somehow, his friend has the cheek to give her the same answer. Then it’s Hubert’s turn, and Hubert accepts because he can’t refuse.

Edelgard takes some time before starting the duel, leaning on her axe as she talks about her expectations for the future.

“I will be taking my father’s throne soon, as you all know.” She says at some point, glancing over to a distracted looking Ferdinand. “We should all meet here again in some, say, five years. I’d be curious to see which of us will have changed the most.”

Linhardt doesn’t look up, nor shows her any sign of acknowledgement. It’s not like she’s ever cared for people’s thoughts on her plans and ideas. She straightens her back and picks up the axe, without waiting for a reply from anyone.

Her great strength, isn’t it?

He spends the rest of the day eating fruit and playing cards with Petra and Caspar, and before supper Hubert is taken to the infirmary with his side bleeding. Linhardt looks up from his cards, to see the blood painting bright red patches in the grass. He has to turn away to the side, suddenly sick, and Caspar takes a peek at his cards. Somehow it’s still Petra who wins the round.

The next day he visits his housemate. Hubert’s torso is covered in bandages, the wound deep enough that even with the help of white magic it needs time to heal.

“Her hand slipped,” he explains, “and I was careless.”

“That you are.” Linhardt replies, all nestled up in the armchair by the bedside. Miss Manuela’s office is ever so comfortable. Even more, when he’s not the injured one.

“I don’t blame her for it. She’s the future Emperor, it’s important that she trains.”

After that, Hubert doesn’t say anything else, clearly not convinced by his own performance. Linhardt can’t blame him, it didn’t convince him either.

There’s a strange tone to Hubert’s words, something a bit too apologetic, even for him, and a question forms on the tip of Linhardt’s tongue. Caspar is more sensitive about this kind of things, and he would chastise him for bringing up something like that... but Caspar isn’t here right now.

And it’s an interesting thing, he thinks, to find out how good your friends are at lying.

“Do you like her?” He asks, finally.

“No.” Hubert says, without having to ask what exactly he means by _liking_ , and Linhardt feels that this time, he’s being truthful.

“That’s good for you.”

Hubert shakes his head, with something of a smile on his exasperated face.

The silence of the room is comfortable, and the temperature mild. A lazy strip of sunlight reaches his spot, so Linhardt brings his legs up to the seat of his chair, and lets his eyes close for a couple minutes. When he opens them again, Hubert is asleep.

The sun has set when he leaves the room, but he stops by the dining hall to look for Manuela, and ask about his housemates.

He... rudely, he guesses, interrupts her dinner, yet she replies with the closest thing to a motherly look he’s ever seen on her face: Ferdinand, Bernadetta and Petra have all visited in the morning, bringing Hubert their notes for today’s classes; Caspar and Dorothea were on stable duty, and dropped by around lunchtime, with some coffee; lady Edelgard didn’t show her face around, and spent all day cutting open training dummies.

For some reason, Linhardt feels sick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to mel again for the beta and the love, and to the people from the 3h server for always being so kind and supportive! love u!


	4. Verdant Rain Moon, late Season of the Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that holy blood in his veins, and he doesn’t feel any closer to understanding the workings of fate, or of the Goddess, or anything. (the beginning of Summer)

IV.

When the Verdant Rain Moon rolls around, the rooms of the monastery start to empty out. Today in particular there’s quite a commotion at the main gates, the yard crowded with people leaving and saying their goodbyes. The last class of the season has been a few weeks ago, celebrated with some dueling tournaments between the Houses, that Linhardt decided to steer clear of, and a couple of parties serving some delicious food, that he _didn’t_ steer clear of.

And after that, with the Officers Academy on break, most professors have left the monastery to enjoy some peace in the Garreg Mach town, and many students have started heading home to spend the month with their families, including most of the Eagles.

...and excluding him.

“Linhardt! I’m- I’m going to miss you, I’ll- _ugh_ ,” Caspar sobs into his shoulder, his arms a deadlock on Linhardt’s neck, “I’ll be back soon! I promise I will!”

The tears start to seep through Linhardt’s delicate silk shirt, and he sighs before hugging Caspar back. Now that he doesn’t have to wear the uniform, he decided to dress up nice to see his best friend off, but clearly Caspar is having none of it.

“Did you bring enough water with you?” He asks. “If you keep crying like this you’ll get sick before you get to Bergliez.”

Caspar doesn’t let go, but at least the tears stop.

“Why’s it always like this... It’s been forever since you came over.”

Linhardt pats his back. “I told you, same as last summer. Mom says the Magdred Way is dangerous this time of the year, I’ll have to wait the winter break.” Then his hand moves up to ruffle Caspar’s hair. “Anyway. If you say it always happens you should know better than to cry about it, you big baby.”

Caspar slowly breaks away, a hand still rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I... ugh.” His face is all wet. “Don’t you have too much fun without me.”

Linhardt rolls his eyes in reply, but gives him a big smile. Oh, Caspar von Bergliez. Someone he’d walk to the ends of the world with. “And don’t you slack off too much without me. We have to do it together, remember?”

“Yeah! When I’m back, we...” Caspar trails off. Suddenly, his face looks so blurry. Linhardt has to blink a couple times before putting him back to focus, and seeing Caspar’s eye wide, glimmering. Oh, he’s crying _again_ , isn’t he? What is it, the third time today? But as he blinks one more time, he feels something cold roll down his own cheeks, and Caspar rushes to hug him again.

...and then they’re both crying like babies, in the middle of the courtyard, for no real reason. There’s people all around, and many people are leaving, and many are staying, but they’re the only ones making such a fuss about it. And how much everyone else missing out.

Caspar is still sobbing when he gets on his horse, and tears are still flowing freely down Linhardt’s face when his friend waves at him one last time, before becoming a little dot in the distance.

Now, left all alone... it doesn’t feel right to stay among all those people. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, pondering on what to do. He knows Bernadetta is still at the monastery, and Dorothea didn’t leave either, but he isn’t sure if he wants to be around them right now. He isn’t sure if he wants to be around _anyone_. Something feels a bit wrong, but it’ll feel better once he occupies his time, by studying, or training, or maybe by lazing around in the shade…

One option is clearly more tempting.

Linhardt turns to the monastery, the sun at his back, and steps under the cloister. The covered walk isn’t deserted, but it isn’t nearly as packed as it is during the rest of the year. Unlike the rest of the year, he’s able to walk all the way past the entrance hall and the chapter house without anybody stopping him to ask if he shouldn’t be in class.

Finally, he steps out into a smaller courtyard, secluded enough that even the noise at the main gates cannot reach it. There’s not a soul in sight, only trees, flower bushes, and the echo of songbirds. Linhardt walks straight into the center of it, towards a tall white willow, which he knows from experience to be one of the most comfortable places in the monastery to have a good nap.

He makes his way under the branches and sits down against the bark. Even so far from home, the Summer air is sweet as ever. Even without his friends. A gust of wind makes its way through the heavy branches, and he feels it start to dry his tears.

And in that moment, at the corner of his eye, from the other side of the tree, a shadow starts to creep towards him, without making a sound, and before he can turn something touches his shoulder-

He jumps back. Screams.

They scream, too.

It lasts just a bit more than necessary, and when they’re done, they stay in silence for a bit, sitting side by side, just looking at each other.

It’s the Deer. Bernadetta’s friend. The pretty one, Marianne, with her dark eyes and hair the color of the sky.

It’s been a while since they last met, during the Blue Sea Moon at the feast Ferdinand personally organized before heading back home. The two of them had sat together with Bernadetta in a corner near the sweets table, before he passed out from exhaustion and Caspar had to drag him to the dormitories like a dead weight.

Oh, he didn’t feel good that day. He doesn’t now, either, but Marianne looks like she does. It’s strange to see her like this, out of her uniform, in a simple linen dress, the circles under her eyes so much lighter than he’s used to seeing them. It feels like he’s intruding something, even though she was the one to tap his shoulder. And she’s still staring at him.

“He... hello.” Linhardt tries.

Marianne’s eyes go wide, as if she wasn’t prepared for him to talk. He’s not sure why he’s even surprised, when he already knows that... well, she’s a deer, alright. He might’ve even dreamed of her with horns and fluffy ears, once or twice.

“I... uhm,” she starts, “hello. I... saw you were... were you crying?”

Oh. Well. No point in denying it. He reaches up, dabbing down his face with a sleeve.

“Yup.”

“And... are you okay,” she asks, “Linhardt?”

He looks at her, then back at his sleeve, then opens his mouth, and closes it again, and his head is a bit of a mess. Is he okay? Did she just remember his name? And most importantly, shouldn’t he be asleep right now? Oh, his head hurts.

“I’m fine, I... did, did I bother you? You were here first.”

Marianne shakes her head. “I was just praying… It’s... it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

“Did all your housemates leave?”

“Lord Claude and Hilda did... Lysithea, too. And I think Lorenz.”

Linhardt doesn’t really _know_ any of those people, and even under the cool shade he feels exhausted, but Marianne looks more relaxed than she did the other times they’ve talked, and even the ones they didn’t. He’ll have to postpone the nap.

“I’ll be praying for they all have safe trips.” He says, to which Marianne smiles. “My housemates always leave for the summer, too. And I stay. It does get a bit too silent sometimes.”

“Is that why you were...” she trails off, gesturing to his face.

Linhardt has no doubt that he looks like a mess. It’s kind of embarrassing, he’s not used enough to expressing feelings like that, but Marianne puts him at ease.

“Caspar, my best friend... he just went back home. He’s the only one who gets me to be such a crybaby, just weeping and weeping for him... He’s terrible.”

“That means he’s a good friend!” Marianne giggles, before falling silent again, and looking away from him, towards the sky that peeks from the willow’s heavy branches.

“Some things... some people are worth weeping for.” She says. There’s a somber, but loving look in her eye as she speaks, something that Linhardt can’t decipher. It feels like talking to an ancient thing. He looks away before she can feel his stare, and passes a sleeve down his face again.

“I guess you’re right. I just wonder why it’s hitting so hard this time. They had to leave before, but...”

“Do you feel... like something might happen?” She asks.

“Maybe.” He says. It’s only half a lie. Now he feels it and he feels it deep inside his chest, the sensation that something will go wrong, the fear that his friends will be somehow careless, and that he’ll never see them again.

He remembers lady Edelgard, for some reason, all of her strange talk about a class reunion and change and the future. Five years. Five years? They’ll all be graduated by then, they’ll be adults, won’t they? Sixty Moons and everyone will be gone and then back again. It feels so far away, and it feels like he’s already late for it.

“I think... you shouldn’t worry too much about, uhm, things you can’t help...” Marianne finds her voice again. “But... you should always trust your intuition. That’s the Goddess’s guidance.”

She sounds so sure of it. All that holy blood in his veins, and Linhardt still doesn’t feel any closer to understanding the workings of fate, or of the Goddess, or anything. Surely the Divine Cethleann didn’t feel this helpless when the war came her way?

“I... I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me.”

Marianne shrugs, hugging her knees. “If you feel like things are about to change... maybe she just wants you to enjoy the time you still have.”

Oh. Marianne is looking at him now, and though he can’t figure out what’s going on behind those dark eyes of hers, it feels like she knows exactly what’s passing through his mind. His chest feels lighter, all of a sudden.

“I... You’re right. And if something ends up happening...” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “No use worrying now.”

She smiles at that, and Linhardt feels strangely brave. The words come out more easily than he thought they would. “If you’re not busy, would you like to have dinner together?”

The blood drains from Marianne’s face, before rushing all the way back, but she replies before he has time to regret asking.

“I... I’d like to!”

For Linhardt, it’s the first day of Summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go! this was the last chapter i already had p much written, so it might be a bit longer before i can post the last two! still, even tho now i'm playing i won't be changing the original drafts and notes to go with the plot, so i guess from now on we're in canon divergence territory!  
> again thanks to u for reading, thanks to mel and bina for all the love, and sorry to linhardt for making him cry!  
> (also... time to create that relationship tag!)


	5. Tempest of seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lions have claws. He wishes Eagles had wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost there! sorry for the short chapter, it was originally gonna stay in the 4th but then it got too long dsfdgfh anyway! no spoilers and honestly kind of canon divergence, the second part was written a good while before i got the game. apparently the students don't even study at the academy for more than one year, weird as hell.  
> thanks again to lovely mel for the beta and to the 3h server for managing to keep me off my switch by talking about winnie the pooh. love u all!

V.

It’s a wonderful Summer, the hot temperatures mitigated by the gentlest of winds, and in the turn of a single Moon Linhardt learns many things.

He learns to recognize the edible plants in the greenhouse, and to tell apart different species of birds, and how to calm down a skittish pegasus. He learns that peach sorbet is Marianne’s favorite dish, as well as his, and he learns that splitting it in half is just as satisfying as eating an entire one.

He learns that she doesn’t like to talk about her Crest, something rare and powerful and officially still undocumented, and he has a thousand and one questions for her, but she tenses up whenever he mentions it, and he hears Caspar’s voice in his head reprimanding him to “take it easy, man”.

He learns that he can teach, one night in the library with Marianne and a heavy tome on black magic in between them. Caspar, Bernadetta, Petra, even that Lion girl who once stopped him outside of class to ask for help with a spell, everyone has always complained about how terrible he is at explaining things, and they’ve all been correct.

But this time his words reach where they’re supposed to go, where he wanted them to go, and the following day Marianne is in the Knights’ Hall flinging wind magic against the walls, with a confidence he’s never seen in her eyes.

Soon after, for some reason, he also learns how truly, deeply annoying it is to not be able to focus on his work and fall asleep easily when he wants to, and the most annoying thing is not knowing why exactly this is happening.

He sits for hours at his desk, at night, trying to absorb simple bits of information, but his head is up in the clouds. There’s that single Crest sketched over and over in his notes, and while he does know enough to write down at least _something_ about it, he can’t bring himself to do it, his thoughts shifting everywhere but in the paper. He feels like standing up and running all around the monastery, until he’s too tired to think. Is he starting to become like Caspar, after all these years together? How troublesome.

In the morning, he tries and he tries and he tries to catch a wink or two, under a tree, in the dining hall, even in his bed, but nothing works. Even Bernadetta tells him he’s restless lately, and that must count for something.

Marianne worries, tries offering him tea and sweets and she saves him a spot next to her at breakfast and lunch and dinner, and in the cathedral when she goes there to pray, and in the gardens when the wind is pleasant... And somehow it’s even harder to relax like that.

He asks Miss Manuela about it, one evening, after two weeks of not sleeping properly, and she does nothing but laugh in Linhardt’s face.

“Are you still worried,” Marianne asks over a cup of chamomile, “Linhardt?”

“No.” He says, eyes unfocused on a spoonful of sugar. Half of the truth. She means his friends, but right now, the only thing he’s worried about is himself.

“You... you look like there’s a lot going through your mind.”

“I’ll swear it to you, Marianne, for once, there’s surprisingly little.” He laughs, and she looks relieved, giving him a small smile in reply.

Linhardt has to look away, back to the sugar. He pours it all in his cup and drinks it, before he has the time to remember that was the fourth spoonful, and it tastes just like death.

He starts coughing, and Marianne sprints away to grab a glass of water for him. He feels his face grow hotter as he waits for her to come back, and Manuela’s laugh starts echoing again in his head.

Whatever it is that’s happening to him, Linhardt can only hope that it’s gone before Fall begins, that he may go back to his beloved routine of equal parts of napping and research, and that lady Edelgard won’t see him in such a state.  


And Fall comes faster than he expected, and doesn’t bring the Princess back to the monastery. It doesn’t bring half of his friends back either, but it does carry a storm of letters from all corners of Fodlan.

Rumors circulate about the disappearance of the great Jeralt Eisner, this time with his child, professor Byleth. Word runs that Edelgard will ascend to the throne, and the statements regarding the fate of the Emperor her father are conflicting. Most say he died, some that he was killed, an optimistic few that he’s simply stepping down from politics. Linhardt’s mother doesn’t know the answer, but to him, it’s enough just to know his family is safe.

Dorothea’s isn’t. She tells him about commotion in the capital, with the Mittelfrank Opera House being involved, and it’s the first time Linhardt hears her call the people who raised her “family”. It’s also the first time he hears her poised, measured voice shake.

Letters come from Faerghus, too, saying that Prince Dimitri won’t be returning to the Academy during this year, and listing half a dozen members of the Blue Lions that are to return home immediately under order of lady Cornelia, and Seteth reads everything aloud to the terrorized students, and Linhardt sees how unfocused his gaze is.

He sees an ugly scene that night, coming back from the library: a student being dragged to the front gates by what looks to be his father, until the student grabs a dagger, and manages to cut a slash down the man’s arm, before some guards force the weapon out of his hand and throw him inside a carriage. Lions always have claws, Linhardt thinks, looking down on the dagger still shining with blood. He wishes Eagles had wings.

There’s talk of war, Caspar writes him, there’s talk of death. Their fathers have been called to Enbarr, as has Ferdinand’s, as has Petra, alone. Bernadetta sobs on his shoulder as he turns the last page of the letter.

Classes start again, because there’s no reason for them not to. Strange things happen in the world these days, but talk is talk and rumors are rumors, and von Essar tells him that he shouldn’t worry about anything, besides his studies. The professor’s grip on his shoulder doesn’t feel reassuring anymore. It’s unsteady.

Claude von Riegan comes back during the Wyvern Moon, glorious and beautiful and dressed in white and gold, applauded by students of all three Houses. His presence reassures them, for some reason, the fresh wind in a stifling hot night, but Marianne looks at him with uncertainty, as if she knew of some secret behind his presence, behind his lovely smile. Linhardt doesn’t ask questions.

Bernadetta doesn’t like him, either, and Dorothea says something about knowing types like his. Linhardt has an inkling that she’s talking about herself.

With Marianne, things... go. They talk, theorize about the current events, and he prays with her, and she tells him that she’s afraid her adoptive father will drag her back home, and he tells her he’s afraid of war and blood and of a hundred more things, and sometimes they sit in silence in his room hand in hand, eyes wide open because he doesn’t have it in him to rest anymore.

He sees her and he sees her and he sees her every day until one morning he doesn’t anymore, and the Ethereal Moon has risen and Winter has begun and he receives a letter summoning him to Enbarr, and Dorothea takes him aside to tell him that Claude von Riegan has left, taking some of his Deer back to Leicester with him.

For once, just for once, he weeps shamelessly in the middle of the courtyard, his knees sinking in the snow.


	6. Fifty-nine Moons further, Red Wolf Moon, Season of the Wyvern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d never calculated how fast everything could just fall apart, in the right hands. (reunion in Fall)

VI.

The passage of time is a funny thing. Which is to say, a thing Linhardt always preferred not to think about. He’d always known one day he’d have to graduate, to succeed his father as Minister, then as Count, and of course he’d have to abandon his ways of life, somewhere in between. He’d always calculated that it would take a couple decades for all of this to completely fall into place. 

Five years to graduate at the Officers Academy, though he could stretch that to a couple more, if necessary. After that it would be years as the Minister’s aide or something similar, to ease him into the future position. When he’d become something worthy of being called an adult, his father would step down and leave him in charge of the Ministry, and then Linhardt would have to do something grand like marrying a Duchess and carrying the Empire to prosperity. 

Maybe his friends would be there, Prime Minister Ferdinand, proud and charismatic and larger than life, Caspar likely a general, strong and unstoppable just like his father, and one day even Bernadetta would receive her title, and things would somehow become normal again. 

What he’d never calculated was how fast everything could just fall apart, in the right hands. 

Barely a season, and the Prime Minister was no more, and the Church was an enemy of the Empire and Garreg Mach was to be left immediately. And then there was war. Inside the Monastery and against Church and against the Kingdom and against the Alliance and against any dissenters. 

The first months were terrible, Linhardt being forced to the capital and then back home, all while still being unable to receive any news about his friends. The confines of his world became those of the Hevring castle town, three sides of gray walls and one of blue sea, a perfect little cage kissed by the sun, pretending to carry on with its life as the rest of the world burned. 

In late Spring, under the Harpstring Moon, the first letter came, from the golden Enbarr, with the announcement of the Princess’s coronation, as well as news of his father: after weeks and weeks of uninterrupted work for the sake of the Empire, illness caught up to him, and he was currently bedridden. 

That was when his mother left for the capital, with the intention to help with the recovery, leaving Linhardt in charge of his sister and the County. Those were lonely times, that he and Lisbet tried to fill with long days spent fishing together, always with an eye out for any imperial messengers. They’d never gotten along quite so smoothly, but without a doubt he would’ve taken her usual insults any day, over the empty silence that weighed between them during those days at the dock. 

The months that followed were worse. Father came back home, escorted by a few of lady Edelgard’s personal physicians, but still pale and terribly debilitated. He slipped in and out of consciousness, Count Hevring, that tall and looming figure, hardworking and devoted, a knight in all but title. In that moment, sitting up all alone in the center of his bed, coughing into a handkerchief, he looked like the smallest man Linhardt had ever seen. 

Mother was the Minister now, he told him and Lisbet that night, when his voice was strong enough, and she couldn’t leave Enbarr. Linhardt would soon have to join her, by request of the Emperor. 

And Linhardt complied, because he couldn’t run away. One last kiss for father, one last squabble with Lisbet, one last look at the heavy bookshelves in his room. Unlike in Garreg Mach, this time he had the possibility to say goodbye to everything he was leaving behind, yet it didn’t ease the burning sensation in his chest. 

As Hevring faded in the distance and the Summer wind filled the ship’s sails, he thought about snow. About how the snowfall in Garreg Mach would be the last he’d ever see. 

It never snows in Enbarr. Summer in the golden capital isn’t too humid, and Fall isn’t too rainy, even though gray clouds always obscure the moon, and Winter isn’t too cold. It simply is, a place without anguish and without comfort. The war is far away as to not keep him up at night, wondering if he’ll survive to see the morning, and his friends are equally far away. 

The last time he saw Bernadetta was on the day lord Varley’s delegation came to take her from the Monastery. Of Caspar, Linhardt heard that he fled the capital before his arrival, and that he turned against the Empire, alone and with nothing but his axe. Ever the hero, his best friend. Petra left the castle to head back to Brigid with the start of the new year, and luckily the Emperor was too busy to bother stopping her. On the other hand, Linhardt managed to spend quite a bit of time with Dorothea, before she received lady Edelgard’s request to join her war council, and decided to leave the city that same night. 

That happened during the third year of Edelgard’s rule. After Dorothea left, all that was left of their old class was Hubert, ever shadowing the Emperor’s steps, and Ferdinand, who looked like something of a shadow himself. 

The years pass one after another, in the frozen capital, and as the Moons rise and fall, everything changes so slowly that Linhardt barely even notices. There’s still war out there, miles and miles away from the cocoon of his room in the ministerial quarters; there’s still war as if there’s always been, as if it’s a normal part of life to see devotees being chased out of the country, and sons and daughters leaving it on a warhorse to come back inside a basket. 

There’s still war when he sleeps and there’s still war when he forces himself awake, Moon after Moon, to work for the good of the Empire, like his father liked to say. Now it’s his mother that he watches work herself to the bone, that he has to pry away from documents over letters over law plans. Now it’s him who has to frown at when and how much she sleeps. 

There’s so much wrong in this normality, this everyday life that’s been forced onto him; so much that every night, every time he closes his eyes, it feels like everything is inching towards a disaster, towards a breaking point. It feels like that last Verdant Rain Moon at the monastery, when he saw Caspar for the last time and for a day it felt like the world was crumbling down. 

Yet somehow he’s surprised when Edelgard has him called to her office, one evening under a cloudy Red Wolf Moon, on the fourth year of his stay in the capital. 

It’s night already, and Mother is sleeping on her desk when the servant arrives, and Linhardt is not. He doesn’t wake her up, only sits up straight as the man speaks. An invite, nothing more specific, but Linhardt already knows. The man leaves the room, and he hears his mother stir in her chair. He lays his coat on her shoulders before stepping out of the chambers. 

At this hour most of the inhabitants of the castle are locked inside their rooms, and Linhardt walks down the corridors without meeting a soul, his steps barely led by the muted moonlight that filters through the windows. Then he turns a corner, to the hall that leads to the Emperor’s chambers, and he spots a figure walking towards him. 

He looks a bit older than he’s supposed to be, with his hair that’s gotten too long, and without that shining smile on his face. The ugly scar that runs down the left side of it must contribute as well. He also used to be a bit shorter than Linhardt, but he’d make up for it with his presence. Now he’s outgrown him, but there’s something missing. Linhardt halts in place, and his friend walks up to him. 

“How are you faring?” Ferdinand asks. 

“How am I faring?” he repeats. “I’ve been called by her Imperial Highness, is how.” 

Ferdinand smiles a tight, bitter smile, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Linhardt reaches for it, holding it tightly. He can’t quite tell which of them is the one who needs the support, considering how shaky the grasp is. They haven’t seen each other in just a couple weeks, but the difference from the person Linhardt knew is always staggering. Unmovable, noble Ferdinand... Where’d he go? 

“She needs proof.” Ferdinand murmurs, as he does lately, leaning closer. “After Caspar left, she worries you... you might...” 

Open his eyes? It’s hard not to notice her bloodstained hands, even with those bright red gloves. Everybody sees, that’s why they’re all too scared to leave their posts. But he’s always been different, Caspar von Bergliez, his best friend, brave through and through. Linhardt can only hope he’s alive. 

“She has nothing to worry about.” 

Ferdinand sighs, gripping Linhardt’s shoulder a bit tighter. He looks straight into his eyes. 

“What about me? Is there anything I should worry about?” Now there’s a certain strength to his voice. Authority, or something like that. Not that Linhardt ever cared for things such as this, but for a second it feels like he’s talking to a rightful emperor, as well as a dear friend. 

He leans into Ferdinand’s ear, and whispers the truth to him. “I’m not stupid enough to try and commit treason without a plan, and I’m not smart enough to have one that could let me get away safely.” 

When he breaks away, Ferdinand starts laughing. Tensely, because that can’t be helped, but it’s still a gleeful sound, one that’s been dearly missed, as has Ferdinand’s beautiful shining smile. Linhardt considers leaning in to kiss him. 

Then Ferdinand pulls him in for a hug, and he misses the chance. 

“My friend, we will make it out of this.” 

Linhardt doesn’t know how to reply. That doesn’t sound right, does it? He huffs, and rests his head on Ferdinand’s shoulder, and they stay like that, in silence, until the other speaks again, the lightest whisper. 

“It is not... a plan, but Dorothea, I, I talked to her at the border. She told me the Lions and some Deer were going to meet in Garreg Mach next month. She will be there. Caspar might, too.” 

He breaks away before Linhardt can process what he’s been told. 

“Sorry for stopping you. Now go. Be careful, and do as she says.” 

Linhardt swallows. His throat feels dry. “If I must.” 

Ferdinand laughs again, as if nothing happened, and he starts walking away. “I will see you again, my friend. Good luck on your mission.” 

“Thank you, Ferdinand.” Linhardt manages to say. 

Then he’s alone in the long corridor, the Emperor’s office at the end of it. In his head there’s Dorothea, Caspar, all the people he thought he’d never see again, and there’s a wall between them, the door that separates him from her. 

But he can’t linger. He steps in. 

The room is large, but mostly empty, clearly being used far less than the War Room. Weapons and regalia hang from every corner of the room, with a few blank spaces where the paint is flaking. Where the banners of Seiros used to be, he can only guess. 

The Emperor is standing up behind her desk, facing the window, and she turns immediately as Linhardt closes the door behind him. She’s a vision all in white, her hair, her pale skin, her dress and the gloves that cover her hands, a harmony broken only by a bright red sash around her waist, and the golden crown that hangs dangerously from her head. And somehow she’s always shorter than he remembers. 

“I suppose it is too much to request a greeting out of you.” Edelgard speaks, not without a hint of annoyance in her voice. Nothing he hasn’t heard before. 

“I don’t really have anything to say. You’re the one who called me here.” Linhardt replies plainly. 

The Emperor frowns, and he remembers Ferdinand’s words. Do as she says. They can’t really afford getting on her bad side now. Their families can’t. 

“Good evening, Edelgard.” He then adds. “How might someone like me help you? I’m afraid I’m not a terribly interesting conversation partner for you.” 

She nods, her horns dangling, catching the candlelight. “I will be needing your help, yes. Take a seat.” 

As if to give the example, she sinks into her own chair, on the opposite side of the desk, and Linhardt does the same. 

There are quite a few papers scattered around, but the Emperor’s hands move fast, immediately finding what she was looking for. Two papers, that she lays face down in the middle of the desk. Linhardt doesn’t dare touching them without input. 

“The Counts of Hevring have been in service of the Imperial family for decades.” She begins. “While your mother might’ve assumed your father’s functions with success these past few years, a time will come when you might be the one I have to trust with the Ministry. I wouldn’t be opposed to passing it to someone else, if need be, but having witnessed your abilities personally, I’d prefer not to.” 

How kind of her, to be already planning for his mother’s death. 

“Such a privilege.” 

“I know. Therefore I’d like to make use of these abilities, for a mission I can only entrust to you.” 

She pushes the papers towards him. Linhardt decides to take that as permission, and he turns the first one. It’s a map, one he’s vaguely familiar with. 

“I don’t expect you to recognize this,” she says, “it’s Dukedom and Alliance territory, in the far north.” 

He already doesn’t like this. “What am I do to with that?” 

“A trip. Or a couple of them, more specifically. Luckily, with the collaboration of the Dukedom and Cornelia, you should be able to get where I need you fast.” She takes out a little piece of marble. A chess piece. 

“And where do you need me?” 

The white glove sets the bishop on the map, over a mountain range. Daphnel, it reads. He remembers the shape of that Crest, he remembers that the family doesn’t carry it anymore. 

“It’s a small castle, barely fortified, from what I hear. It’s currently under the control of Margrave Edmund.” 

He remembers that name, too. His throat suddenly feels dry, but Edelgard doesn’t notice, Edelgard goes on. 

“The mountains protect it, but on the other side lie the rebel territories of the Dukedom, not to mention House Riegan and the, ah, problematic House Gloucester. In a delicate position like that, I wouldn’t want the Margrave to think he can get too bold.” 

She looks up. Linhardt doesn’t move his eyes from the map, and it’s easier to speak like this. 

“It’s... a small castle, in the middle of neutral and enemy territory... What importance might it have to you?” 

“I don’t need the castle. I wouldn’t have called you if this was about a siege. I need you to take something from there... From him. I have reason to believe he moved it here, an inconspicuous location, in order to keep it safe.” 

She pauses, her gloved hand landing on the second paper. She pushes it towards him. “I’d have it before the next Moon, if you can work well.” 

Linhardt picks up the paper, turns it around. His hands are shaking, but Edelgard has the grace to not mention it. It’s something he’s drawn a lifetime ago, so many times that he could probably do it blinded. 

“The Crest Stone of the Beast. Bring it to me.” 

Linhardt leaves Enbarr that same night. No time for goodbyes, good luck wishes, anything. He has a writing pad in his bag, made of fine gray leather and completely blank, a spellbook and a sword. Lady Edelgard has given him horses, and around a dozen Adrestian soldiers to help him on the recovery quest. 

Linhardt doesn’t know any of them. She must’ve been thoughtful enough as to realize it’d be harder for an acquaintance to kill him, if necessary. 

But his plan, like usual, is to not die. 

The mission is simple enough, storming Daphnel Castle, capturing its lord and retrieving the Stone, before retreating to the mountains to escape the troops House Riegan might send after them. The way home would be through the West, passing by the Kingdom – the Dukedom capital, the silver Fhirdiad. Since he was a child Linhardt dreamed of visiting it, of falling asleep in its immense archives, among the knowledge of centuries over centuries, but not like this, not as a soldier, not as a murderer. 

Being surrounded by other murderers doesn’t make him feel better in the slightest. They’re eleven, his subordinates, like the Elites, each with their own specialty and skills, and he supposes that makes him their lady Seiros, called by the power above them to spill blood for their holy cause. He’s never liked that part of the legend. 

The first night they set up camp, north of the Morgaine Ravine, Linhardt dreams of them slitting his throat in his sleep, and he wakes up coughing his lungs out. It doesn’t catch anyone’s attention. 

He’s definitely not their Seiros, he thinks in the freezing silence of that morning, when they start marching again. He’s their Maurice, the outsider, the traitor. The Beast. The one who ends up with a sword in his belly, and the one they’re here to cut open. 

They sleep nestled on a hill in the middle of Gronder Field, the third night, and Linhardt idly wonders how many people he’ll have to cut open to bring lady Edelgard her shiny little jewel. The sky is clouded like in Enbarr, but above him he still sees ten, twenty, a hundred stars. It could be that many, for all he knows. More than that have surely died already. 

He thinks about Edelgard, when he asked about the Crest Stone. She showed him the drawing of an axe, one that looked like a Hero’s Relic, one he’d never seen before. It would be a weapon made for the people, she said. It would be a weapon to bring forth a new age. It would be in her hands, he thought. 

He falls asleep thinking about those hundred stars, and he wakes up thinking about that creepy axe. 

One of the soldiers owns something similar. 

It’s a cursed weapon, according to him, the Devil Axe. Though it isn’t true, Linhardt knows, it’s still an ugly thing to look at. Around the campfire the soldiers talk about it, about how it drinks their friend’s blood and makes him even better at slicing people up, and they all laugh, but Linhardt feels sick. 

He isn’t afraid of curses, he’s never been. But he is afraid of the hand of someone who wields such a thing. 

Another soldier is a falconer. She lets her little monster (well, not that little, not at all, but definitely a monster) fly away each morning and by the evening she gets out the lure, and that thing comes back with a couple rabbits between its claws. His subordinates don’t bother asking him to help skinning them, though he’s been personally gutting all the fish he caught in the Airmid River, but he feels too idle waiting for dinner to be made, so he gathers firewood instead. 

Of course, he can’t even do that alone: that damned hawk follows him into the woods, as does one particularly light-stepped soldier, who at this point must think Linhardt can’t hear him. They can’t trust him, and he can’t do anything about it. 

He’s not an Eagle anymore, he knows. He’s a little bird in a cage. Or maybe one of those that someone taught him to tell apart back at the monastery, the butcherbirds who need to kill the weak to survive. The Beast. The traitor. Maurice. 

The hawk shrieks, and Linhardt almost drops the firewood. He rushes back to the other Adrestians.   


On the fifth day they cross the river, west of the Great Bridge of Myrddin, the Alliance border. The others are more alert than ever, now that they’re in enemy territory, but to Linhardt it feels freeing to be so far away from the capital. And so close to Garreg Mach. They march along the course of the Airmid, to avoid setting foot in Gloucester territory. And Linhardt watches it get clearer and clearer as they go upriver, the ruined form of the monastery and the town. 

He thinks about his father, looking at that those scorched walls. How tall, how beautiful they used to be before that Spring, years and years ago. They loom high above their path, illuminated by a timid moon, but just on the other side of the mountains. No man’s land. Safety. Or something else? 

Lions and Deer were supposed to meet up there, people with nothing else but their will to fight, to protect. Caspar wouldn’t have left the battlefield for safety, much less for a friendly reunion. But Linhardt has never been as brave as him, and the thought of joining a fight again, even if by the side he’d feel is right, is already enough to make him feel sick. 

But if what Ferdinand said is true, if he could see any of the others at least one more time... the thought is so pleasant that he dozes off while still riding, for what seems to be just a couple of minutes. 

When he wakes up the horse is still and tied to a tree, and his subordinates are nearby preparing the campfire. When everyone has gone to sleep that night, he lets himself open the writing pad, and starts sketching a map of the area, including all the gates and hidden passages to Garreg Mach that he can still remember. Most of those are bound to have been destroyed, but if only one... 

Goddess, where does he think he can go? A coward with nothing but a couple spells to protect himself, with eleven and one hawks at his heels? He rips off the page, and throws it into the dying fire. A little chant, a snap of his fingers, and it’s nothing but ashes. 

The sixth day, they’re up at dawn, and the freezing morning air reminds Linhardt that Fall has almost died out. He barely noticed it even began, back in the golden Enbarr, without the heavy downpours and bright nights that usually come with it, and now it’s already inching towards its end. And these past years he’s always looked forward to Winter, when the war has to stop – if only because even Edelgard knows her troops can’t march further into Kingdom territory with a weather like that – and the cold temperatures would arrive to the capital with the hope that the fighting wouldn’t start again the following year. 

But this time it’s different, because he’s already at war, and the peace and quiet of the Winter in Enbarr won’t bring him any comfort after this Fall, once he stains his hands with blood under the clear skies of Daphnel. 

The march is more silent than ever, today, as they move closer and closer to their destination. They left the road of the mountains early during the day, when they finally passed the borders of Daphnel territory, and they’ve been riding through a sea of trees along the mountainside. 

It will be tonight, Linhardt knows, and tomorrow he’ll be in the Kingdom with a hostage and that damned stone, as one of the Emperor’s men, one of her murderers. How sick it makes him feel. He doesn’t manage to catch a single wink in the evening, so he’s forced to watch the castle slowly appear at the horizon, while the sun starts to fall down. 

By nightfall they’re in front of the gates, hidden within the tall trees. As lady Edelgard predicted, the castle is small, almost pitifully so, to the point that it resembles more of a country mansion. The perimeter is guarded by just a handful of soldiers, save for the side where the wall meets the mountainside, controlled by a single tower carved from the rock, the blind spot they’ll be entering from. A clever move on Margrave Edmund’s part, to hide something so precious in a place as unassuming as this. But not enough to escape the Emperor’s watchful eye. 

After leaving the horses in the middle of the forest, they slowly proceed towards the tower, shielded by the shadows. When they’re close enough to see the torch burning at the top of it, one of his men takes out his bow, aims it high and shoots in the dark. Linhardt follows the trajectory of the arrow, up to the clear sky, to the moon rising bright and bold, high above their heads. 

Then, a dull noise as the arrow lands inside the tower. The man raises his hand, and listens. Linhardt doesn’t dare breathe, and neither do the other soldiers, all waiting in perfect stillness. But no more sounds come out of the tower. 

“Clear.” The archer says. So easy. So terrifyingly easy. 

Climbing up the side of the mountain and into the tower is just as easy, following the lead of the others, but nothing prepares him for the bloody sight at the top of it, of a helpless guard with his subordinate’s arrow piercing the space between their eyes, wide open. Linhardt looks away. 

“Casualties at a minimum.” He has to say. “We just need the person at the head of the castle, and their treasure.” 

Eleven heads nod, focused, determined. 

Linhardt can almost hear the unspoken order they must have received from the Emperor. _You only need the little scholar to identify the Stone. Dispose of him if he tries anything funny._ As if he could. His eyes trail down again to the guard on the floor... oh, he’s not made for this. For any of this. 

“The... the lord’s chambers should be on the other side of the hall, at the bottom of the stairs.” He continues. “Let’s be fast.” 

Of course, leaving the tower isn’t as easy. At the bottom of the stairs they spot yet another torch, and a guard holding it, their back turned to them. The soldier standing on the same step as Linhardt puts a hand on his shoulder, and points her chin down, in the guard’s direction. He has to nod. For the mission, for the Emperor. To go back home. 

He chants the spell fast, and climbs down the stairs slowly, careful not to make a sound, until the guard is right in front of him. Then, a flick of his hand, and a blade of wind shoots forward, slashing through armor and flesh. Blood sprays from the guard’s throat, right over his face, before the body slumps down on the floor. 

Linhardt’s head spins, and he takes a step back, and another, and another, until he hits against something. The man with the Devil Axe. He’s patting his back. 

“Good one, boss.” 

He nods weakly. The others are already exiting the tower, marching down the empty hall; he follows, feet uncertain. 

It’s not the first time he’s killed, but this must be the first time he hasn’t done so in self-defense. He killed bandits, back at the monastery, and thieves and murderers and kidnappers, and even then, it wasn’t pleasant. Will he have to kill the person behind that door, too? Will it be the Margrave, of the Leicester Roundtable, or some poor soul dispatched with the single intent to protect the Stone? He’ll find out immediately, he thinks, as one of the soldiers reaches to open the door to the lord’s chamber. 

There’s no one in the bed, nor anywhere else. The others don’t stop to worry about that, and they begin searching every corner of the room, but Linhardt’s eye is caught by the open patio doors. Without sparing a glance at the others, he steps out of it, and the door slams closed behind him. Nobody follows him outside, into the small courtyard carpeted by dark, dry grass.

It’s something of a garden, but it seems nothing has survived this far into the year – nothing but a single shadow, standing on the opposite side of the courtyard. They stand in front of a rotten old tree, but from this distance he can’t distinguish if they’re yet another guard, or the person they need. His ticket back to Enbarr. 

“I knew something was coming.” The shadow speaks. 

Linhardt freezes. It’s a soft voice, a voice he knows. His legs feel weak, but he steps forward. 

The shadow turns around, moonlight shedding over their body, hair the same color as the sky, and Linhardt sees a familiar face: different, older, but still gentle, beautiful, and he’s scared like he’s never been before. 

“It’s you.” She says in a whisper, her voice surprised, tinged with pain. 

“It’s me,” is all he can say. 

Then, a noise from behind the door, and Linhardt turns to see the shapes of his soldiers still moving inside the room, searching for the one thing that will grant them a safe passage home. He looks back to see her tear her eyes away from him, dark and pretty as he remembered them, and watch them fly across the windows, to the people he brought into her home.

He’s their commander, isn’t he? He should be thinking about orders. The Empire. Home.

Linhardt tries and tries to focus, and yet as the words tumble out of his mouth, he feels nothing but her eyes on the blood that stains all around it. How shameful, to let her, of all people, see him like this.

“In the name of Emperor... her Imperial Majesty, Emperor  Edelgard ,” he starts, “you will, you will give up the artifact you’ve been entrusted with, the Crest Stone in possession of Margrave Edmund, and follow me to the capital, and I will see that no harm is done to you or your castle.”

He wonders how convincing that sounded. To whoever may be listening of course, not to her. She’s outnumbered, she has to know. Even if she was able to call for help, surely it would be pointless,  surely they wouldn’t make it in... By the Goddess, he can’t be really considering killing her, can he?

“I’m sorry.” She says, voice cutting clear through Linhardt’s thoughts. “I cannot allow this. Leave at once, if you value your safety.”

Somehow, unlike him, she manages to keep her head high, fists clenched at her sides, and she looks so confident, so different from the last time Linhardt seen her, and he’s still a coward while she... she, she, she.

“Marianne.” He calls.

He slowly steps towards her, in the middle of the courtyard. Now he sees movement behind the windows, and he knows the others must’ve seen him, must be hurrying to join him outside, and he prays the Goddess for a little more time. He keeps looking forward, to her eyes, to her motionless form.

“Is the Crest stone more important than your life?”

“Is it not?” She gasps. “For your Emperor, for you who’ve come to take it... for Count Gloucester, and surely for my adoptive father, too.” Her voice is trembling, but loud. He’s never seen her like this.

“If I don’t die by your hand for not giving it to you, I might by theirs for doing as you say.”

Goddess, Goddess, she can’t be thinking that, can she?

“Marianne, you- I...” he can’t find the words. How easy would it be, if this were anyone else, to get the Stone, and force himself to go back home. But it’s her, and Linhardt remembers the Fall, the Summer together and the Winter when they met. He remembers all the seasons that followed, and those moments in  Enbarr when he dreamed of being anywhere else, anyone else. He remembers the peace of the times before that, and her hand in his. He remembers being brave.

The door is thrown open again, several feet behind him, but Linhardt speaks soft enough that the soldiers can’t hear him, even in the silence of the courtyard. He looks down to the dry grass. He can’t meet her eyes.

“What would it take to get you to come home with me?”

“Where is  home?” Marianne’s voice trembles. “Your Emperor, with me in chains?”

“That couldn’t be further than what I was thinking.” He almost laughs. “To silver Fhirdiad or to the Aquatic Capital, far away from the war, or in Garreg Mach to fight for ourselves, anywhere you want to. What would it take for you, only you, to come with me?”

Then he hears a terrible sound, the cranking of weapons as the soldiers start to move towards him, and an even worse one, one that sounds like a sob, and then there’s a whirl of light in Marianne’s hands, and suddenly there’s something between them.

The little jewel. Round, red and awful. He looks back up to her.

“Not your Emperor nor this cursed thing. Only you,” she answers, “Linhardt.” 

He breathes deeply, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. 

“Alright. Do you trust me?” 

He almost wants her to say no, because his hands are covered in someone else’s blood, because he killed to live and he’s one of those vicious birds now, and it wouldn’t be wrong for her to shoot an arrow through his chest. 

Instead Marianne coughs out a laugh, her pretty eyes meeting Linhardt’s, and there’s tears in them but she nods, she nods and smiles at him and that’s just enough. Linhardt feels brave again, like never before. 

He throws a glance behind him, to the other Adrestians several feet further, and they look back at him with some degree of trust, that he’s more scared of dying at their swords than he is of doing something stupid, and he can have them think that for a bit longer. 

He turns his hand against Marianne, chanting that one spell he’s never trusted himself enough to cast, and he breaks into a sprint towards her, and before the soldiers can understand he snaps his fingers, and a wall of fire rises behind him, cutting the courtyard in half.

The arrows start flying from the other side almost immediately, but only few manage to get through the wall, strong as the flames are. Linhardt reaches Marianne unscathed, save for his scorched cape, and she wastes no time: she throws the Stone away, over to some corner of the yard beyond the wall of fire, and grabs his wrist. 

It finally feels like freedom again when she starts running out of the courtyard back inside the castle, dragging him along and holding his hand tight; it feels like freedom even with the sound of fire and weapons and curses in the distance, and even when they grab two horses and hurry through a small gate south of the castle, and there’s nothing but mountains in front of them, but the moon is so bright in the sky that Linhardt can see the path before them as clear as day. 

Marianne kicks off, and he follows. They ride in silence for so long that Linhardt almost forgets why they’re running, until Marianne starts laughing. 

“I... Goddess, I ran away from home, I...” She laughs again. “Me? I... What am I going to do?” 

Linhardt turns to look at her. “I, I just committed treason, you know. Can’t go back home at all. I might just be in more trouble than you are.” 

“Are they... going to chase us?” 

“Probably not. They were tired, and they got the Stone, they’ll head back home. But if they find us, they’ll take only our heads to Enbarr.” 

Marianne nods. “Then… they won’t find us.” 

It’s strange to see her like this, so confident, so secure, so… 

“You’re staring, Linhardt.” 

“Yes.” He replies, eyes still on her. For some reason, it’s nice to even hear her complain. “Are we going where I think we are?” 

“You said home. I... Even if there’s more fighting ahead, if we can go there together... I wouldn’t mind.” She smiles, looking ahead. 

Linhardt feels wide awake as he follows her eyes, towards the mountains, and far into the distance, to a little spot shining bright in the moonlight. Garreg Mach. To Caspar, Dorothea, to all the ones with a will to fight together, to protect each other. To the future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER. i finished deer route in the meantime, but i was really excited to post the last chapter. after release and reading a buncha supports im still loving linhardt and marianne and homeboy ferdinand and ok its just a good game, im already looking forward to writing more for it.  
> anyway here we go, this is finally done! once again shoutout to mel and bina (love u sweeties!) as well as everyone for reading! thank you <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to give a big thank u to bina @tangerinabina_de_archanea for all the support and love she gave me AND for enabling me to use this title when she should've held me back! Thank u and big hugs to mel @lentranced for beta-ing this for me and also for the support and inspiration that she's always been for me! Another thank u to that anon who came into my inbox the day after I started writing this and called me horny out of nowhere. Love you captain! And finally thanks to you for reading!


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